Every time they settled in a new place, and the inhabitants of that place learned that they were practicing gematry, they would be harried and driven out, for in the dark days after the Sundering, magic was considered a curse. The Ashkar began to become restive. “Why must we wander?” they asked. “Our Queen is gone, and our land as well, why must we continue to practice gematry, which marks us as outcasts?”
—Book of Makabi
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Are you quite sure about this?” said Kel.
“Quite sure about what?” Conor braced a booted foot against the interior wall of the carriage as it nearly lurched into a ditch. The recent rain had left the roads on the Hill pitted with holes. Kel would vastly have preferred that he and Conor ride Asti and Matix the short distance to the Roverges’， but Luisa, it seemed, did not know how to ride a horse. For Conor to arrive without her would not be protocol, so carriages it was. When Kel glanced out the window, he could see the lacquered d’Eon carriage following theirs, like a faithful blue beetle. “Am I sure about my outfit? I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“Not the outfit,” Kel said. “Though now that you bring it up, it is a bit much.”
Conor grinned ferociously. He had decided, for reasons Kel could not fathom, to attend the party dressed as the male incarnation of Turan, the God of desire. （Usually depicted as clothed in silver and gold, Turan could appear as male, female, or androgynous, depending on the God’s mood and the necessities of the situation.） Conor’s breeches and frock coat were of heavy gold fabric, shot through with silk-wrapped threads of contrasting silver. Silver painted his lids, and more glittering powder dusted his cheekbones.
If one looked closely, one could see that the cuffs and lining of his coat had been embroidered with human figures engaged in what could euphemistically be termed “acts of love.” Whatever tailor had been tasked with producing the embroidery had embraced their task with enthusiastic creativity. No position had been depicted more than once. （It was lucky for Conor, Kel thought, that the Queen had declined to attend the party, citing a headache.）
“I have no doubts about my outfit,” said Conor. “The Hierophant is always complaining the royal family does not do enough to honor the Gods. Surely he’d be pleased.”
Kel thought of the grim-faced Hierophant and snorted. “You know he wouldn’t,” he said, “but that is not what I meant. Only—poor Luisa. She is hardly prepared for the silk-clad vultures who populate the Hill.”
“Is anyone?” Conor shrugged. “You were thrown in among them when you were only ten years old. You managed.”
“I was not being presented to them as their future ruler,” Kel pointed out, “but rather as your orphaned cousin from Marakand, whom they might pity. They will not pity Luisa.” They will hate her as a symbol of the scorn of Sarthe.
“Speaking of Marakand,” Conor said, “there is a saying with which my mother has always made sure I am acquainted. The jackal that lives in the wilds of Talishan can only be caught by the hounds of Talishan. I believe it means,” he added, “that you cannot defeat what you do not know.”
“And you cannot win a game you do not play,” said Kel. “Luisa is too young to play Charter Family games.”
“But she is not too young to see the board on which the games are played,” said Conor. He smiled, eyes flashing silver under his silver-painted lids. “I am not going to change who I am, or what I do, because of an engagement that will not be a marriage for another seven or eight years. If Sarthe insists that Luisa remain in Castellane for all this time, they might as well understand the world she will inhabit, and the people she will know.”
“And perhaps they may see the wisdom of letting her finish out her childhood in Aquila?” said Kel—more a question than a statement, but Conor only smiled and glanced out the window as the carriage came to a stop in the Roverges’ courtyard.
The house of the dye Charter occupied a coveted position on the Hill, built half into the cliffside, with a view of Poet’s Hill. Mount Cicatur rose behind the Academie, its face threaded with glimmering veins of Sunderglass. The sun was setting now, as they left the carriages, turning the Sunderglass the color of copper. To Kel it looked as if a bolt of lightning had speared through the mountain and been frozen there, a fiery reminder of a force long past.
The house itself was as grand as might be expected, and far more in the style of the old Empire than Marivent. Tall pillars supported an arched roof, and the front doors were reached via a broad marble staircase. Statues of the Gods lined the rooftop’s edge, gazing down benevolently—Aigon with his sea chariot, Cerra with her basket of wheat, Askolon with the tools of his forge. Long ago there had been a statue of Anibal, lord of the underworld, but some past Roverge had removed it, considering it bad luck. The result, Kel thought, was somewhat odd—twelve Gods could be spaced out evenly, but eleven looked somehow lopsided.
The courtyard out front was full of carriages already, with footmen in the Roverges’ teal livery seeing to the horses. Several of them cast covert glances at Conor: partly, Kel guessed, because he was who he was, and partly because of the sheer luminosity of his clothes.
They were quickly joined by the convoy from Sarthe. Sena Anessa and Senex Domizio were polite but unsmiling, wearing patriotic blue. Vienne d’Este—somber in her Black Guard’s uniform—looked as grim as if she were attending her own funeral rather than a party. Luisa, lost in a bell-shaped dress covered in lace, ruffles, and ribbons, seemed delighted by Conor’s appearance in a manner that her companions clearly were not. She pointed from Conor to the statue of Turan on the roof, and eagerly showed him her hands, wiggling her fingers back and forth.
Conor looked puzzled.
“You can talk to him, you know,” Vienne said gently. “He speaks Sarthian.”
Luisa smiled. As they moved in a group toward the front doors, she explained that she liked the color of Conor’s nails, painted to resemble silver mirrors, and that she wanted her own the same color.
“Well, that’s easy enough,” said Conor, never one to deny another the opportunity to experiment with fashion. “We can have a cosmetician sent over to the Castel Pichon tomorrow.”
“That would not be at all appropriate,” said Sena Anessa frostily, and Luisa scrunched up her face. Before the situation could escalate, however, the liveried servant at the door caught sight of them, and soon they were lined up to be announced as they entered the house: Conor first, then Luisa （with Vienne beside her）， then Kel and the Ambassadors.
Shouts and cheers greeted the entry of the Prince, which died away as Luisa entered, pressed tightly to Vienne’s side. “Ostrega! Xé tanto grando par dentro,” she whispered. Gracious, it’s such a big place.
Indeed, the first floor of the Roverge mansion was a vast space, dominated by a wall of windows looking out onto a stone terrace and the city below. Nearly all the furniture had been removed, making the space look even larger. What remained was a temple to the worship of dyes: Brightly colored fabrics covered the plush divans scattered around the room and trailed gauzily from curtain rods. More consideration had clearly been given to impact than harmony. The textiles on display were a wild combination of deep cinnabar and blue, bright mustards and greens, tangerines and violets. Servants, moving through the room carrying trays of iced wine, added to the riot of color—they were dressed in indigo blue, gamboge yellow, poppy orange, vermillion red, poison green, and blushing coral.